"Our Time Now..."

We are Generation Y, the Millenials, the generation weaned on computers, raised by helicopter parents, kept miles away from lead, and provided with possibly more resources than any other generation anywhere in the history of the world.

We weren't allowed to have cell-phones in junior-high but we sure had them in college. 

We are better educated than previous generations but fewer of us are employed.

We were raised on the notion that we could be and do and go anywhere that we wanted but now we sometimes look like a less-than-mediocre generation of unsatisfied, disgruntled employees.

More of us were supported by our parents for longer, yet, on average, we are financially floundering or at least naively unaware. 

We are both the healthiest and the fattest generation.

We were raised by parents who read to us, but some of us haven't finished a real, meaty, grown-up book in five years. (No, skimming Twilight on your friend's Kindle does not count).

We either love our jobs or we hate them or we just quit them in search of our dream job, but we all are looking for deep meaning and fulfillment at work. None of us seem to be working purely for our retirement benefits or our paychecks.

We are constantly on the move, working too hard, playing too hard, eating too much or too little, living in a world of extremes. We are, in short, thirsty for more, in search of something better than average, in search of good stories, good relationships, good work, and good lives.

Conversations with my friends produce common themes. On the whole, I think common goals among evangelical Millenials are deeply positive, if occasionally misdirected.

We ask ourselves and each other: Why are we working? What is the purpose of work? Who do we marry? Why do we marry? When do we marry? When should we rest? What is rest anyway if not a 30-minute session of Angry Birds? Where should we live? Do we really need to live anywhere in particular? Should we go to grad school? Should we go to grad school again? Should we pay off our student loans? Did anyone vote in the last election? Does anyone even know who is running in the next one?

The generation of children that was told that there are no bad questions has grown into a generation of young adults asking a lot of big questions. 

And this is a good thing.

Idealism is only naivety if disconnected from reality. Abundance is only an evil in conjunction with bad stewardship. Angst can be a motivating force towards action.

Flannery O'Connor wrote, "In the long run, a people is known, not by its statements or its statistics, but by the stories it tells."

This generation of evangelical Millenials has an opportunity, a great opportunity, to tell good stories and, through them, to tell The Best Story. But first we have to put down Angry Birds.

Happy Mother's Day!

Dear Mom,


You bundled me in pink snowsuits and tied my hair in pink headbands and sang to me and took me for walks and set up playdates and fed me baby quiche. From the first moment you showed me that the world was big and exciting and full of tastes and colors and people and charm and beauty and adventure.

You read me book after book after book after book and two and a half decades later I can still hear your voice reading Goodnight, Moon andI'll Love You Forever. On the surface life is more complicated now but the moon still comes up and every night the world still goes to sleep and I know now more than I did then that you really will love me forever.

Years later we read other books together, grown-up books, and you are still the best person to call when I need to rant about a British novel. 

Sometimes when Daddy had to work into the small hours of the morning you would let me stay up late into the night with you while you worked on projects to make our home beautiful. You didn't know it at the time, but you taught me that some things, like beauty and the people you love, are more important than sleep.

You taught me long division and made me painstakingly write out the steps. Divide. Multiply. Subtract. Compare. Bring Down. Over and over and over. I'd want to move faster and skip the steps and then the numbers would come out wrong and you'd remind me that steps can't be skipped. Sometimes now I get frustrated and want to hurry and then life gets tangled and I remember again that, in life like in long division, sometimes steps can't be skipped.

You taught me how to bake and reminded me to level the flour because sometimes the directions need to be followed exactly. Now I bake in a kitchen far away and I subconsciously tap the measuring cup and level the flour just like you showed me, carrying your words into every loaf of bread and batch of cookies that I make.

You made me pink cakes with rosebuds and blew up colored balloons and set beautiful tables for every one of my birthdays. You made sure my dress was just right for every recital because you know that every girl needs to feel like a princess, not once, but many many many times.

You made me practice when I didn't want to because sometimes little girls and big girls too have to follow through when they don't feel like working. "Feel the music, Emily," you would urge. And I remember every day that I can still make art right where I am even when I would rather  be doing something else.

I remember the countless times that people remarked that I looked like you. I loved it when people said this because I knew that you were beautiful and I wanted to be just like you. I still do.

From you I learned how to use candles and cloth napkins and mascara. You've taught me to send thank-you notes and take hostess gifts and how to make people feel welcome even if the food is served on paper plates.

You never tolerated sulking and knew that the best antidote to bad moods was action and movement and service and laughter. I remember that, on days when I just don't want to get out of bed or face the world or try, on days when I just want to stay under the covers alone where it's safe. But you're always right.

And sometimes we argue because that's what happens when you raise someone as strong-willed as yourself. Sometimes I wonder if you really knew what you were getting yourself into when you decided that motherhood was the most important job in the world. And I wonder if, in the dark of the night, you really think it was worth it.

Deep down I know that I scare you sometimes. That sometimes you are afraid that I might just be a little too reckless, too headstrong, too naive, too optimistic. That sometimes you wonder if you did something wrong.

But really, I'm the one who should be scared. You give away love and grace with unconditional abandon every day of your life. And I don't know that I have what it takes to do that. 

There's nothing riskier or scarier or more reckless than giving away your life for imperfect people. But you do that every day of your life.

Sometimes I wonder if I can ever love a man and children as faithfully and well and completely as you have loved Daddy and me and my brothers and sisters. But if I do, it will be due to nothing more than to the grace of God and your example in front of me every single day.

You've given me books and dresses and piano lessons and time and cupcakes, but mostly, you've showed me what it really means to love. 

Thank you, Mommy. I love you!

Let the Madness Begin

I don't normally consider myself a sports fanatic. I can certainly appreciate the occasional football or basketball game during the year. But I just haven't attained the attention span required to follow a team or sport for an extended period of time. The period in early winter when basketball and football are both occurring is still confusing to me.

Also, I attended a tiny liberal arts school. Although my school had a lot of great qualities, our athletics department was weak at best. So I didn't catch the sports bug that many catch during college years while attending a bigger state school.

But for the last couple of years, during a few weeks in March, this all changes. Something about the intensity, the fast pace, the limited time-period, the viewer participation, and the fact that I can finally pretend to know what I'm talking about during sports-related conversations at parties....I'm hooked.

My bracket's triumph in my office last year sealed the deal. Who correctly put Butler in the Final Four? This girl. 

During March Madness I become a different person. Normally I don't even watch television. During March Madness, I yell at mine and sometimes throw things. Normally, I work in blissful ignorance at the office while the guys discuss recent games. During March Madness, my morning greeting consists of questions like "Who saw the VCU/Wichita game last night??" and "Can you believe that call?!" 

So, the normal Emily will return on April 3. Until then.....let the madness reign.

Reflections on Lent

Lent is far less romantic than it at first seems. In the weeks leading up to Lent, it takes on a dramatic aura. Self-denial, self-sacrifice, penance, lessons about grace...it all seems quite dreamy.

Then boredom settles in. Every day doesn't really begin or end in a fierce battle through which I emerge triumphantly more self-disciplined or honest or patient. Mostly, I just learn to irritably endure the dull self-inflicted annoyance of not getting my way on a regular basis.

Worse, I begin to simply ignore the commitments that I set for myself, shrugging off extra time on social networking sites or the consumption of a stolen piece of candy as petty misdemeanors.

Then comes, perhaps, the most irritating part of Lent. I learn that I'm not really as great as I imagine. I'm actually far more lazy, far less productive, far more gluttonous, and far more critical than I like to admit.

Lent holds up a startling mirror through which I can see myself. I may not be a criminal but I'm not a saint either. I am, I discover, a petulant child who is happy and compliant when I get my way and stormy and sulky when I don't.

I grow weary with my petty sins and disgusted at my inability to tow the line. Lent doesn't make me better or more lovable. It simply shows me how dingy my faith, how tremulous my walk, how unlovable I am.

But Easter is coming anyway.

"The Lord is merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love."

And therein lies the gift. Unloving, I'm loved. Undeserving, I'm blessed. The great lesson is that trying is in vain and my efforts are futile, but that peace lies in rest.

Reflections on Ash Wednesday

Today is Ash Wednesday.

There is nothing particularly practical about Lent. 40 days spent purposefully suffering a minor inconvenience or small self-denial seems silly at best.

But then, there's nothing practical about giving instead of taking or in serving instead of demanding. There's no logical reason behind why humility breaks pride, why weakness breeds strength, or why death brings life. 

Miracles are something out of the ordinary, impractical, illogical . . . and yet, real and necessary. And part of Ash Wednesday is remembering the mystery of salvation.

Creative Commons License: "Lots of Blossoms" by aussiegall on Flickr

Of course, the crux of Christianity rests on the idea that logic doesn't always trump and that the visible doesn't always triumph. At the heart of Christianity lies the idea that something very real - though utterly invisible - happens during baptism or communion or fasting. Christianity insists that the physical not only represents, but truly, deeply affects the spiritual and emotional and invisible.

So we commit to giving something up for Lent, holding on to the idea that a gesture of humility will soften our hard hearts.

Uncomfortably, though,  we realize how paltry any self-denial looks when weighed against our guilt, how ineffective are our attempts to achieve our own repentance, how pathetic our penance.

But then, of course, that is what Easter is about, after all. Insurmountable debt paid in full. An irreconcilable gap bridged. Incurable guilt dissolved. And all this despite our inability to help ourselves.

Lent is a reminder of our need for Easter as penance is a reminder of our need for forgiveness and effort a reminder of our need for the gift of grace. The morning can only come after darkness; forgiveness can only come after confession; the rejoicing of Easter Sunday and the ironic gift of the Cross can only come after we acknowledge our failures and our inability to save ourselves.

Nineteen Tips: A Valentine's Day Tribute

Happy Valentine's Day! Have you had enough yet of pink and red, chocolate, flowers, sickening pretension, socially imposed guilt, and relationship angst? Of course not. It's early in the day.

I actually enjoy this holiday, mostly because I'm desperately addicted to those weird candy hearts. I also feel like a holiday devoted entirely to love gives us all a great opportunity to think about, well, love. 


But while the gooey, sticky, heart-and-flowers kind of love gets the spotlight on this day, I think Valentine's Day offers a prime opportunity to learn a little bit about real love (you know, the married, committed, sacrificial, I Corinthians 13, day-in-day-out, Hollywood-forgot-about-this-part kind).

I thoroughly enjoy cornering my married friends and gleaning advice on relationships from them. I used this post as an excuse to fully abuse this privilege. I asked over a dozen married friends and family members to offer insight and advice for real relationships. Below are their responses. 

Some of the responses are from women and some are from men. Some of these people have only been married for a number of months. Some of been married for decades. All of them were generous enough to share some of their wisdom and experience with me and with you.

_____________________

1. Be willing to be vulnerable. Love the whole person, not just the good things. Express your love and appreciation daily.
2. Just say it, even when you can't think of how to phrase it. It's better to talk about it than stew over it.
3. If you have something that needs to be talked about, do it in the morning when you are both fresh from the nights rest. And take the time to pray together every day.
4. Laugh a lot . . . at yourself and together.
5. Never go to bed angry. You may not completely resolve the issue, but discuss it enough so that neither of you is angry anymore.
6. Stay steady through the ups and downs, always sharing thoughts and feelings. Be perceptive to the others person's needs, because they are most often different from yours.
7. Buy flowers at the right time. Don't just listen; give feedback, too. 
8. Don't use "talk it out" as an excuse to air grievances that could easily have been forgiven
9. "Constructive criticism" is not your job.
10. Respect, civility, kindness, consideration - all will carry you much further than being in love. 
11. Don't argue about the small stuff . . . and 99% of it is small stuff.
12. As Ellen Goodman said, "We are told that people stay in love because of chemistry, or because they remain intrigued with each other, because of many kindnesses, because of luck.  But part of it has got to be forgiveness and gratefulness.  The understanding that although you’re no bargain, you love and you are loved. Anyway."
13. Choose to think the best of your spouse in any given situation. You get to choose!
14. "Do I want to be right or do I want to be happy?"
15. Pick the right girl and you're all set. Be a good companion to yourself, and you'll be a good companion for someone else. In short, be content, and do something in your spare time that not only is enjoyable, but worth doing.
16. Live with gratitude. Your partner will not be perfect, and you aren't either. Thank your spouse profusely for any special attentions he/she offers you, and don't allow yourself to dwell on your spouse's faults.
17. Learn laundry language.
18. Marriage is one of God's greatest gifts to his children, a rich blessing.  It is also the meeting of two minds, personalities, and hearts . . . beautiful and terrifying all at the same time. It is somewhat akin to nuclear fusion.
19. The best advice comes straight from Dusty Springfield:   

Overheard in a Coffee-Shop

Random woman: "Is this a latte?"

Barrista: "Yes ma'am."

Random Woman: "I ordered a mocha."

Barrista: "It's a mocha-latte."

Random Woman: "My mochas normally come with whipped cream on top."

Barrista: "I can put whipped cream on it if you would like."

Random Woman: "No, that's ok. I just wanted to make sure I wasn't getting something different."

Seriously?

It's Christmas Again

Almost exactly a year ago, on Christmas Eve, I wrote these words in another blog post:

In the end, then, Christmas is about making much of small things. Christmas is about remembering that sometimes God's perspective is different than ours. Christmas is about commemorating the tiny, the tangible, and the real. And Christmas is about celebrating one lone event that, in the whole wide expanse of history, really did matter.

Now, twelve months later, these words seem more true than ever. Sometimes I plod along in the dark, only able to see the next task that lies directly in front of me. And even that next task is often too difficult and things don't turn out the way I plan or want or expect.

But sometimes, for a fleeting moment, I'm given a glimpse of the bigger picture, of the tapestry built from these fragmented pieces, those events that I didn't choose and the people that I couldn't control and the timing that I didn't like. Sometimes, and especially at this time of year, I'm reminded how very significant each of those shards really is.

And this season is perhaps the best time to stand back and admire, for just a moment, the bigger picture, as we celebrate the passing of this year and past years and look forward to the coming of the new. So, in the midst of the traveling and shopping and visiting and celebrating, as you sit among your family and friends, take a few minutes to savor the beauty that the last few months and years and decades have built.

Remember all of those pieces that seemed inconvenient or messy or troublesome. Acknowledge the pain and irritation and hurt and frustration. Then savor the abundance that emerged from the scraps. Because ultimately, Christmas is about celebrating the unexpected twist in the tale, about recognizing the beauty that comes from an overlooked corner, and about a miracle that happened in a manger.

A Year Ago...

A few evenings ago, as some friends and I sat in my living room talking, each of us reflected on the changes that had occurred over the past 12 months in our individual lives. This was the second time in just a few days that the topic had arisen, so I made a list.

Here are just a few things that have changed in my life in a brief year. One year ago, I:

• was planning (what I thought would be) my last semester of graduate classes.
• was expecting to finish my M.A. in English in May 2011.
• was spending a lot of time wondering what people with two English degrees did to produce income.
• had no idea that I was about to agree to move 500 miles away for a job entirely unrelated to my degree.
• was writing a lot of idiotic things in my journal.
• was writing a lot of true things in my journal.
• never dreamed I would agree to rappel off of a cliff.
• had never made bread.
• was a lot less brave.
• had never eaten crab-cakes.
• knew a lot less about grace.
• had never lived without a mental deadline.
• didn't know that I could successfully navigate a busy weekend without electricity.

So here's to another year filled with good books, coffee, friends, unplanned adventures, grace, and lots of good stories! What surprising changes has the past year held for you?

Destination: Unknown

"You don't get to know the ending."

This phrase is one of Mom's most frequent.

But I want to know the ending.

I was the girl who would skip to the end of the book so that I knew what was coming. 

I was the girl who endlessly harassed professors about test material so that I knew exactly what to study.

I was the girl who refused to watch anything labeled "Drama" because that was code for "Potentially Unhappy or Unsatisfying Ending."

No guesswork. No unknowns. No questions.

Clear answers. Clear endings. Clear directions.

But my plans have a way of being foiled.

"You don't get to know the ending."

The more answers I demanded, the fewer I received.

When I planned more, I enjoyed less.

When I insisted more, I appreciated less.

It was exhausting. And frankly, not a lot of fun.

So I gave up. 

I don't want to be the one in the corner, afraid that the story won't end the way she hopes it will. I want to be the one who lives fearlessly.

I don't want to compile a list of all possible pitfalls, dangers, and losses. I want to live without assessing the risk.

I don't want to have safety and comfort and predictability as my highest priorities. I want to live and love and give bravely.

"You don't get to know the ending."

I remind myself of this when I need to commit, when I'm asked to sign up, when I'm called to join. 

I remind myself of this goal when I catch myself compiling a list of "what-ifs?" and "why-nots".

I remind myself to take the scary steps, to agree to the unknown, to avoid the safe corner.

And I don't get to know where this journey will end.

Stories of our Lives

The world is exploding with stories.

There are stories being told all around us, all the time. Stories are everywhere, whirling by in the autumn winds, and yet, so often, we forget to pay attention. We forget that we are always in the middle of a story. 

“I wrote this story for you, but when I began it I had not realized that girls grow quicker than books..." - C.S. Lewis

  

We are caught up in the rhythm of the everyday and neglect to notice that the plot is always moving forward, that new beginnings are always happening, that chapters are always closing. 

We forget, too, that we have a part to play in writing these stories...that the words we choose to grant or the thoughts we hold back - un-acted upon, under cover - are pages in the books of our lives. 

“With every step of our lives we enter into the middle of some story which we are certain to misunderstand.” - G.K. Chesterton 

And sometimes we are caught by surprise in the middle of our own tales. We think we are nearing the end of a chapter when we are really just in the beginning. Or we think we are slugging through the middle of a story when, really, the final page is close at hand.

So we push onward, trying always to live better tales, because we never really know when the page will turn or the chapter will close, leaving us only with the fragments of a story that could have been better.

"We get one story, you and I, and one story alone. God has established the elements, the setting and the climax and resolution. It would be a crime not to venture out, wouldn't it?" - Donald Miller

Two Paths

It's not hard to become jaded. Cynicism is easily achieved. It's more difficult to fight the constant, relentless urge to assume the bad.

Stereotypes are simple. "He always . . ." "She never . . . "

It's easier to criticize than to create. Something can always be done better or faster. Tearing down is fast, easy, and safe. If you never endorse, you'll never be wrong.

Assuming the worst is smart. But it takes courage to insist on seeing (and acknowledging) the good.

"Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God."

Blessed are the pure in heart. Blessed are the un-jaded. The clear-visioned. The eternal optimists. The ones who refuse to retreat. The idealists. The hopeful. The persistent.

"For they shall see God."

They will see God everywhere. Every day. In every blade of grass. In every failure, every success, every happy ending, every heartache, every wish fulfilled. And having seen God, they will push onward.

There's a catch. Sometimes the fallen world will fail these dreamers and they will land on their face. But what is more tragic: unexpected failure or a loss of hope?

Tales

Our stories are funny things. They build us, these tales, piece by piece, moment by moment, that trip, that fight, that beach, that walk, that day. But of course, we build our stories too.

And sometimes we begin a story that won't end the way we want no matter how hard we try. So we have to pick up the pen and begin to write another chapter from the broken paragraphs and run-on sentences we are left holding when the page turns against our will.

Our stories pile up inside until they are less like coherent sentences than a foaming seething mass of words and letters and phrases, so many magnets on the fridge. But the stories are still there, emerging at unexpected moments, reminding us when we need it most of who we are and from whence we come.

So we continue to move through our stories, sketched in indelible ink, shaping and being shaped as we slip through the pages.

But sometimes we get lost. G.K. Chesterton said, "Every man has forgotten who he is. . . . We are all under the same mental calamity. we have all forgotten our names. We have all forgotten what we really are."

And we have to remind ourselves of our stories when the paths that we have walked become hazy. It might take a jog around the block or a trip across the country or a journey around the world to remind ourselves who we are.

In a few days, I will drive west towards a part of my story, towards a house whose windows shine late into the night, towards small hands and warm heads and time with those I love, towards piano keys whose silky sheen I miss and towards a driveway never still for long.

In a few days, I will hear the familiar clamor and open the familiar drawers and sit at the familiar table. I will hold the books that I know and sit in the room that I share and then, in a few days, I will remember.

One Sunday Morning

Repetition was, for better or worse, a large part of my education. It started early as I recited the presidents chronologically in 2nd or 3rd grade.

"George Washington; John Adams; Thomas Jefferson...."

And then there was "The Village Blacksmith" in 4th grade.

"Under a spreading chestnut tree, the village smithy stands..."

Middle-school ushered in an era of Latin conjugations.

"Amo, amas, amat...."

How my parents and I avoided losing our minds during my finals is beyond me.

Repetition, for better or worse, sticks. Thrown off of a horse in high-school, I remember staring up at a sea of faces, trying to regain a bearing on where I was and when and why. Terrified by my own inability to dig out of the confusion that clouded my mind, I grasped frantically for some piece of reality to hold.

On that hot July day, bruised, sore, reality and dreams blending as I faded in and out of consciousness, the first thing that came to mind was the page of my Latin textbook that I had so carefully committed to memory.

"Amo, amas, amat, amamus, amatis, amant..."

I worked my way slowly and painfully through the familiar forms, working myself out of the hazy muddle back into the light of reality.

On Sunday, after a long week of chaos and crisis and busy-ness and work that seemed to have no end, I stood in church and repeated familiar lines.

"I believe in one God, the Father, the Almighty, maker of heaven and earth..."

Once again out of the murky darkness of the week's labor, repetition provided me with an anchor to reality, a reality bigger than myself or work or politics or world news.

"We believe in one Lord, Jesus Christ, the only Son of God..."

Slowly my head stopped swirling and my heart stopped racing and my mind stopped rushing as quiet settled over me.

"For us and for our salvation he came down from heaven . . ."

And through the darkness, I grasp for something real and unchanging and solid. In the midst of questions and confusion, the repetition reminds me of the real and the certain and draws me back to what I know.

"He suffered death and was buried. On the third day he rose again . . ."

Perspective regained. Priorities reordered. The important things, the really important things, sifted to the top above the clamor and demands of the transitory and fleeting.

"And his kingdom will have no end."

And once again, the repetition of the familiar slowly lifted me out of the hazy shade back into the light.

A Quiet Gift

I expect grace to be dramatic and surprising and startling. But I live grace every day, really. Grace is the reality that failure isn't final, that setbacks aren't fatal.

Grace is knowing that, at the end of every wearying day, rest awaits. Grace is that relentless quiet force that enables me, after countless frustrations and mistakes and wrong turns, to meet each new day as a chance to try again.

And really, what is more dramatic than that? The force that makes each day a new gift is as ingrained in nature as the sun rising and setting.

The surprise is that it comes from an unexpected and familiar quarter. While I look for something new and startling, grace steadily and patiently stands at every turn. After I have wearied myself by chasing after the glamorous, the grace of the ordinary stands ready when I can't run any more.

And so I slowly learn that every moment, every breath is the gift of grace.

Time to Walk

I walked out of something this week. It wasn't something to which I had committed or something that couldn't continue without my presence. I was just trying it out, just dabbling, just a new-comer.

I showed up alone (always a bad idea) and late (unlike me, but perhaps the first sign of trouble) and then sat there uncomfortably.

As the minutes ticked by, I became more and more irritated at the time wasted, irritated at myself for getting into a situation in which I was distinctly uncomfortable, and even annoyed at the (innocent) people around me who appeared to be enjoying themselves.

Then it dawned on me. I didn't have to stay. Nothing, absolutely nothing, was preventing me from standing up and walking out. And so I stood up, turned around to face a sea of faces (all still clearly enjoying themselves), walked to the door (which happened to be all the way at the other side of the room) and sailed out into the hot afternoon sunshine.

Sometimes one just needs to walk. Not all books, movies, projects, or meetings are worth finishing. Not all goals are worth achieving. Life is too short to finish something simply for the sake of checking a box.

I don't mean that commitments shouldn't be kept. If you've committed to seeing something through to the end, then finish it, by all means. But most of our lives are filled with a little unwanted clutter, a few projects that we can't quite leave behind but that we really don't have the time or desire to finish.

It's hard to have clear vision if you can't see past the boxes in the doorway. What is one project, book, or activity that you can leave behind forever today?

*If you haven't signed up for the giveaway yet, there is still time!

The Importance of Vision

I tend to be one of those people who, in the face of a decision, hesitates, waits, observes, weighs all available 

options...and then, confronted with uncertainty and questionable success, I do nothing by default. 

My head knows that any action, even mistaken action, is almost always better than inaction, but my instinctual desire to avoid failure at all costs often wins out over the option of following a trail with an unclear destination.

Thoughtfulness and caution are the building blocks of wise decisions, certainly. But I'm beginning to learn that cautious decision-making can be a pitfall when not done under the umbrella of a clear, overarching vision.

Andy Stanley sums this up by saying, "As a leader, you rarely have certainty, but you should always have clarity."

A clear vision of who we are and where we are going makes decisions easier and failure less fatal. Mistakes are inevitable and uncertainty is a reality, but a clear vision puts mistakes and decisions into perspective for the perfectionist.

A person with a clear vision can confidently forge ahead, secure in her vision of the future. Decisions are simply small pieces of a larger puzzle. 

Without a clear vision, though, suddenly, every decision re-determines one's direction. Each decision has the potential to change the ultimate future, to take one down an entirely different path. Every new choice takes on immense impact and has the potential to utterly alter the future. Thus, of course, every decision is weighty and direction-altering.

Do you have a clear vision?

Of Gambling and Risks

There is a difference between a gamble and risk. This hit me today as I read this post on the topic by Zig Ziglar. It was as if a light clicked on in my head.

A risk involves:

• background research
• odds that lean in one's favor
• benefits that outweigh costs
• statistics that show success is more likely than failure

 A gamble involves:

• Random guesses and optimistic hopes rather than realistic understanding
• a thin chance of success
• odds that lean against one's favor
• large costs paid up front in hopes of future benefit
• statistics that show failure is more likely than success

Risk-taking is a necessary step towards success. Gambling is just dumb.


Relationships, finances, and careers always involve risk. But if someone is asking you to play Russian Roulette with your heart, your money, or your job, it's time to run.

Know whether you are taking a risk or making a gamble.

Happy Father's Day!

Today is Father's Day. Although it is a less-promoted holiday than Mother's Day, in a world in which the role of fatherhood is often undermined, an opportunity to recognize the importance of the men who helped shape us should not go unrecognized.

I've been blessed with a wonderful father. Over the years, my dad has taught me, shown me, and introduced me to so many things. My dad and I are imperfect people with an imperfect relationship. Learning to interact with my dad as an adult daughter is a tricky road, one which requires a great deal of grace and humility from us both.

But at the end of the day, despite our differences and the occasional clashes of our equally high-strung personalities, my dad has played a monumental and irreplaceable role in my life. His support and encouragement have kept me going when I wanted to quit. His convictions shaped me. His courage has inspired me.

From him I learned how to do the dishes, how to drive a car, how to ride a longboard, how to change a car's oil, how to shoot a gun, and how to grill fish.

Dad taught me how to embrace the unexpected, to refuse to settle for the safety of the familiar, and to boldly venture into the unknown. From him, I learned the importance of honesty and generosity and self-discipline and hospitality.

From my dad I inherited a love for the sky, the oceans, and the mountains, my occasionally reckless nature, and my sometimes-bull-headed ways.

And so, in honor of the man who raised me, held me, prayed for me and loved me and who taught me to value independence, goodness, integrity and truth, here is a list of 25 lessons I've learned from my dad:

1. Grill fish hot and fast.
2. More costly doesn't always mean better.
3. But sometimes it's just smarter to pay someone who knows what they're doing.
4. Store extra water.
5. People, time, and independence are worth more than money or accolades.
6. Showing up is 70% of success.
7. Wear gloves, helmets, and eye protection.
8. Water is the world's greatest cleaning solution.
9. Never settle for less than excellence.
10. Sometimes life needs to be a little cheesy.
11. Read actions, not words.
12. Change your car's oil regularly.
13. Never borrow money.
14. Practice.
15. Be persistent.
16. Let men be men.
17. Give.
18. Save.
19. Invest.
20. Guests feel welcome when the host is welcoming, regardless of food, setting, or decor.
21. Keep a U.S. atlas in the car.
22. Take responsibility.
23. Sleep and food will solve 80% of your problems.
24. Be gracious.
25. Be kind.

A Summer Adventure, Part II

As I mentioned before, I’m not one of those people who thrives on heights. I wasn't exactly thrilled about the prospect of dangling 180 feet in the air. And I expected to come out on the other side of my adventures a stronger, braver, less-terrified-of-heights person than before.

But the thing about adventures is that they aren’t always what one expects.

Early in the morning, we set out with our guides, a lot of water, and climbing gear. We spent the morning on
this:

 Two things surprised me about climbing.

1) It is a lot harder to hold on to a sheer rock wall than I had expected.

2) I barely had the mental capacity to be distracted by the height, because I was busy exhausting every ounce of energy I had on my search for hand- and foot-holds as I dragged myself upwards.

After a quick break for lunch, we set out once again. This time, we were going down.

As I waited for those ahead of me to descend the rope, I peered over the edge of the cliff. It was......a long way down.

The most psychologically daunting part about rappelling came, for me, when I discovered that, in order to begin my descent, I had to slowly lean out – backwards- over the cliff while hanging onto the rope.

Everything in me that was practical and rational defied this. Forward motion? Fine. Upwards motion? Ok. But why, I wondered, as I struggled to place my feet on the edge of the cliff, would any sane intelligent person voluntarily walk backwards into the air?

But somehow I managed, with the prodding of our guides, to get over the cliff. And then, it was all downhill, figuratively as well as literally. Halfway down, dangling 90 feet in the air, I paused for a minute to take in the stunning view. Red cliffs, dotted with green growth spread out in every direction. A creek trickled through the canyon below me.

It was then that the realization struck me that I had entrusted my life to a piece of fiber only half-an-inch thick. Panic struck me for just a brief second as I realized the hugeness of the empty space around me. But there was no turning back now. I certainly couldn’t climb back up the rope. And so I took a deep breath and continued my descent.

Sometimes I feel as if I wade through life waiting for epic moments, flashes of insight, clarifying epiphanies. I secretly envy those people who talk about the single unifying moments that come into their lives in which they conquer their greatest fear, or realize their deepest dream, or have some equally defining experience.

I think maybe I was expecting that to happen in Utah last week. But, if I’m honest with myself, I certainly can’t claim anything I ventured came close to one of those experiences. The surprising thing about my recent trek wasn’t that I had some moment of insight or felt more invincible or stronger or braver than I ever have before.

In fact, as I hugged towering red cliffs and dangled off the rock face, I was overwhelmed by the sheer size and strength everywhere around me. I was overpowered by how tiny and insignificant I and my world and problems and victories seemed next to the vastness of the cliffs and sky and desert around me.


In our world of ease and comfort and cell-phones and microwaves, it’s easy to forget how very tiny we are and how very vast the universe is. It’s easy to forget how great God is when our world is small and safe and soft.

Our souls need space and height and air and adventures and challenge. But maybe we need those things not to give ourselves an additional ego-boost or to remind ourselves of how great or invincible or cool or strong we are, but to keep us humble. Maybe we need those "Bucket List" moments not to feel big, but to feel small.

And so perhaps our souls desperately need to leave our places of comfort and security and cling to something bigger and vaster and stronger than ourselves not to remind us of our strength, but to remind us of our need.